Trigger Happy
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: Two-Face/Harvey Dent x Oc
1. Patience

**Disclaimer: Batman character names belong to DC Comics (and so on) unless stated an OC which in case belong to the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you...Please enjoy. **

**Two-Face x Oc**

**A/N: Takes place before and during Arkham City. Harvey and Two-Face are written as two personalities in one body, as presented in the game. **

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**Chapter 1: Patience**

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He couldn't remember the point in time when it'd all developed into debauchery and unavoidable self-loathing. When everything Harvey Dent had maintained ended up crumbling into something much more inane and complex, reforming what was once a powerful, considerate man into something selfish and despondent.

When _'I' _officially became _'we' _and_ 'he'_ finally became_ 'they'_.

It was confusing. Although (as peculiar as it may seem) being confused was something he'd openly admit to; that modest side still somehow intact after four long drawn out years.

The last 1,460 days had been admittedly difficult...consisting of a legal system that brushed past the guilty and pointed an accusing finger towards the innocent. A life of scavenging, control and bitter revenge to those who opposed or challenged him. Of planning, heists, Batman and Arkham; usually in that particular order.

This life, of supposedly 'illegal' activities (_again_ consisting of four slow, painful years), was more than he'd initially expected. Slower than it should be; longer than he'd anticipated. It just dragged on as though every hour was spent watching a damn clock and waiting for the bomb to blow at an unspecified time. He figured it due to his insanity rather than the lifestyle, but...there was also the idea that the lifestyle led to the insanity. To or fro, he assumed.

But it sometimes bothered Harvey..._living_, that is. What had once been Gotham's shining salvation, placed on a people-made pedestal of aspirations and hope, was now a part of it's everlasting turmoil...deformed by tragedy, loss and corruption. The moral of the city was faded, its destruction just as defined as the burns on his face. Seeing an idol, a man they thought was destined to change their lives, rot from the outside in had been a slow growing tragedy burning Gotham by the tips of its grimy fingers and watching the ache spread slowly to its hands and arms. A catastrophe...a _decision_.

Looking in the mirror he sees himself, a man split between rage and contentment at the sight of his own face; at the equal division of his entire body. He struggles to still his right hand, a fist clenched with white knuckles...itching to collide with the reflection of corruption presented as a physical form.

Harvey snarled instinctively at his own irritation, turning away from the insane expression of his ruined eye as if in a beginning stage of denial. Yet _Two-Face_ was past that, and he'd already settled at the final stage of acceptance...beyond his counterpart's rage. As the second half of a divided man it was plausible to notice Harvey's flaws, acceptable to point them out and reasonable to attempt to get rid of them. Dent was still pointlessly angry, still keen on revenge and pain and the past that (stated so frankly now and again) should be forgotten. Perhaps he should 'cut his ties': kill his wife, Falcone, the Commissioner, Bruce Wayne. It was adequate...more than responsible when considering his line of work.

At the thought he's disturbed, and though Harvey himself is still mentally in tact, he looks back at the power he'd previously maintained with an expression of outrage. The people he could have easily controlled...the money he'd been offered. The beautiful wife, the office, the friends, the ascendency. Why hadn't he relished in it? What morals and virtues (obviously deteriorated with the left side of his face) had prevented him from taking advantage of what he had?

Plain disgust.

"Let it go." The blatant words of the experienced and the wise, yet Two-Face has only existed for a fraction of Harvey's life. Since Falcone and his personal acid bath, to be precise. But the echo is faint in the tiled restroom (accompanied by an annoying overhead light that flickers every so often) and he's fighting something internally destructive with his mind. A self-loathing that's impossible to dominate, a constant whisper that makes his mind throb with aggravation.

"Why should I?" It comes out shaken, angry and hardly a rasp that his other half can barely understand. His body language is exposing pain, hatred and grief in its physical tension. And in an instant it changes, just as abrupt as the inconsistent light above his head.

"We can have all of that again...just with _force_." Two-Face tells him with genuine appeal, but it's beginning to seem mockingly repetitive with how little they've actually achieved. Murder, control, and money. The three points of interest anyone in his line of work strive for, all leading back to each other to make an endless circle.

He's interrupted at a point of tragic realization, a balanced scale caused by disruption suddenly calming 'both' men. The door is knocked on twice with a steady tap of patience that he recognizes keenly, and Two-Face drops the topic entirely. Harvey growls at the mirror a final time, hands clutching at either side of the sink before showing the counter an unintentional mercy and releasing his grip. Dent turns to leave in disgust...along with Two-Face and his content (as content as it could appear) expression, mutilated in appearance.

Four years...sharing a body. He contemplates the experience briefly as he opens the door. Considering the pros and the cons as he noted to shoot that flickering light bulb later with a .22.

It's not so bad.

"Two-Face." The voice is too sweet, _too_ accepting. Sometimes he chooses not to trust her just by the amount of loyalty the girl's embraced.

She stands there, waiting for him in the usual position of intertwined fingers resting at her front and wedged heels placed together closely. He liked her dress today...an odd thing to observe but somehow casual to think. It made her look young..._too_ young.

He changed his mind.

Tuesday was one of those odd people born to be patient, and was too quiet to be considered normal. Kind, considerate, trigger happy. She spoke rarely, always with good reason and little volume. But she sees his expression and feels the need to say something, exhibiting this look (whether it be of caution or concern he couldn't decipher) which was etched into the glossiness of her vision and the slow acting quirk of her lip. It was in the movement of her jaw as she bit down on the inside of her cheeks, and the furrow of her brow as she looked at him with an unmanageable sympathy she knew he despised.

'They' shove past her, inconsiderate of why the brat had sought them out in the first place. Ignoring the steady glances of observation on his back.

As he continues walking she follows obediently, pacing behind him slowly, like some kind of assistant who awaited a command. But, as unfortunate as it was, Tuesday wasn't anywhere near that level of indentured servitude. They—both Two-Face and Harvey—treated her with some awkwardly formed respect, and in return she brought them a form of companionship they argued they did not require. _A Cheap Scandal_, The GothamTimes would headline. _The screw over of a lifetime_, Vicki Vale would say. He could distinctly hear the muffled laughter the reporter would hide behind her words should the knowledge of his henchgirl ever get out. The bitch.

"What do you want?" Tuesday quickened her pace to catch up with him, heels clicking in rhythm against the tiles.

His tone is strained and annoyed, enforcing caution. She's aware Two-Face is dominant for now, and in some odd way Harvey's been pushed to the back of their mind as if dormant until stated otherwise. For now it's _'he'_...not _'they'_.

"..." Her brow creases slightly as she demands his attention with a tug of their sleeve, lips pursing in concern as Two-Face wonders how this 'partnership' even began. How a thief and a crime lord managed to join forces without the same goal.

He wasn't even banging her (which implied that neither was Harvey)...so how the fu-?

An indistinguishable groan escaped Two-Face's coarse vocals as a reply...and she assumed it'd meant _'okay'_, though the assumption itself was indefinite. He looked down as she stood in front of him, quick to place herself in their path like some high-and-mighty caretaker. He flipped his coin, glancing at the clean end despondently before providing her his full (but hardly cooperative) attention.

"Batman?" She questions and he'ss tempted to deny the coin's choice and hit her anyway just by the rather accurate guess. She bats her eyelids and the temptation to just send a fist into her adorable little eye was nearly overwhelming.

"Yes." A gruff hiss of a reply, irritated and tired and sore. Her hands raise to his chest, fingers fixing the buttons of their suit. She slowly smooths out the good fabric as well as the charred edges before she raised their right wrist and adjusted Harvey's cufflink. She was always gentle; never struck with momentary hesitation or edgy with visible discomfort. She fixes their tie as a final touch and he groans as though impatient.

She just smiles. Because she knows they both enjoy the attention.

Even when she thought about it Tuesday didn't mind their face...their scarring, nor _his_ burns. It gave them character, she said. It made them look distinguished, intimidating, experienced..._powerful_. She never looked away, never avoided their gaze. It was always honesty, always consideration towards his already deteriorating health. Always upturned lips with a painfully optimistic attitude.

She didn't mind much at all, now that he thought on it.

But she did mind Harvey's painful self-hatred...and Two-Face's frequently erratic temper. And she'd scold them repeatedly if it never ended with a one-sided argument; meaning he's yelling and she's just waiting out the storm.

It was frustrating since Two-Face enjoyed frequent compliance, though the rare moments of defiance were always arousing.

But she'd never seemed interested; the brat. She's once claimed being 'asexual'...whatever the fuck that means.

"Two-Face?" She's worried, and it's odd because he hates her expression when she's so blatantly concerned. It looks gloomy and weak and honestly there's enough of that bullshit around his base.

"_What?_" Still gruff, still spoken without change in personality. It'd taken her a while to get used to asking Two-Face a question only to have Harvey respond. After a year it was hardly confusing...usually expected.

"Let me talk to Harvey?" She winds her arm around his, her free hand resting on his mutilated wrist as she did so; Tuesday toys with his overpriced Rolex out of brief fascination, more of a physical distraction. And he notes how that's the longest sentence she's said in days, her responses usually quick or simple nods of the head.

"No." That request to change personalities always pissed both of them off, though she apparently never realized exactly how much.

"..." His unsettling eye exchanges a look of tiresome anguish, narrowing before once again denying her unspoken request. Like a stubborn kid who took glee out of contradicting someone else's demands...but without saying anything. It was annoying.

"He's not in." She rolls her eyes, still nowhere near as frustrated as she should be. Still patient, even with Two-Face _and_ Dent.

But she sees how deleterious they are...how horribly destructive Two-Face is and how self-extirpative Harvey tends to be. How endlessly different and continuously difficult they make sharing a body, and how often there's an inner debate over something as trivial as what to eat (though always ending with the decision of his coin). Tuesday notes how morbidly ugly the situation of fate is, how horrendous every expression seems to be when he flips that damn cent. And it's become unhealthy...it's made them sick in their obsession for duality and the flip of chance. Not fate..._chance_.

But, she also fears that she just doesn't understand. And she remains opinionatedly equitable in his luck-induced decisions.

"Rest." She says it strictly, a tone still bleeding of concern and dispute, making his mood heavy with irritation. She didn't mean sleep, or a break. She meant everything else, like flipping the coin and looking in the mirror with adamant abhorrence. Gazing at themselves (though she'd directed the comment at Harvey) with a hatred he reserved only for his other half. Not defeating his own moral with personal criticism, brought by the assumption that he was a partial monster of an unavoidable demise.

It was funny (not at all in the comical sense, but more peculiar than anything) how his mood changed when referring to himself as '_we'._ How, in the presence of Two-Face, they were on agreeing terms without much quarrel.

Her eyes wander as he stops abruptly, and she suddenly bites her lip at the livid discomfort he creates with his exposed aggravation. It's a dusty look of stilled consideration, very blank as he looks forward down the hall and stiffens into her hold.

"We're fine." A low rumble, threatening to escape as a relentless yell.

"Please..." But she says its so damn sweetly. The second time the word 'please' is uttered tonight, though both for very different reasons. And she holds her breath as the coin is flicked up by the quick, practiced motion of his thumb. A movement she'd seen a million times, a movement she felt was less than practical despite its ability to make her insides flip inharmoniously.

It lands to rest in his palm, out of her sight. And before long she's faced with expeditious anger and atrocity, a bare hand of coarse, scarred flesh at her throat with the sudden pressure of the wall against her back. For a second she's frightened, but the moment passes as it always does–quick to dissipate through her endless supply of equability. And suddenly...it strikes him as odd. It makes him wonder...it beckons thought.

Her hands, small in comparison and delicate in appearance, lay gentle over the tense grasp placed over her neck. The hold of rigid fingers sent a throbbing ache along her soft complexion and insinuated the beginnings of splotchy blemishes; though bruises were the least of her problems. He's close, inches away from her face...close enough to see the little cracks of burning dry skin on her lips and the small specks of long healed scars decorating her right cheek. Supposedly she'd been nicked by shrapnel on her first government heist, barely dodging death with a wide spread grin and the adrenaline of a wild animal. She'd been caught due to carelessness, a rookie mistake.

He'd taught her better by now.

With a careful passiveness Tuesday smiles sincerely. His very blatant frown seems ineffective, only enhanced by the growl of momentary disdain caused by his stress-endured outrage. An upturn of lips in such a situation always managed to cause confusion, and often if made him angrier than he already was. But she couldn't help it...it was endless—much like her patience.

"Just for now." It's a gentle request this time, Tuesday having noted her error of demanding anything she did not deserve. And upon his softening expression she runs a careful hand through the thick salt and pepper stands of his hair, a look she enjoyed more than the girl let on.

He glances briefly at her lips for the third time tonight, sighing under his breath at the comforting action and relaxing into the slow graze of her fingertips. He groans as though aggravated as always, presenting another sneer that made the bridge of his nose scrunch in irritation.

"Whatever, brat." As he released his hold she exposes another quiet smile...more at the hushed comment of dismissal rather than the momentary freedom. He quickens his pace and she runs to catch up like before, heels clicking into a slow rhythm at his slouched and defeated side. Her arm wraps back around his own, hand resting as always on the tattered skin of his wrist (as though he were to escort her somewhere nice). And she softly hums an unfamiliar song as they walk, because she knows she's won...and he snarls because he's aware he's caved.

"Thank you, Two-Face."

He ignores her, fighting back the 'you're welcome' that'd nearly escaped his throat.

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**There will be another chapter. Sort of a snippet fic, but maintains a vague timeline. **

**Provide feedback, please!**


	2. Coffee

**A/N: Involves Gilda, who was Harvey's wife before the accident. Similar to Nolan's Rachel except Gilda is still alive, and in some continuities assists Two-Face...in others she rejects him and leaves Gotham. **

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**Chapter Two: Coffee**

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When they're quiet, she worries...more so than when they're impatient and livid. Because silence was the indicator of either Harvey reminiscing or Two-Face instigating inner turmoil, which would eventually turn into momentary depression or pointless anger. Both side-effects of a dual personality that she'd rather not challenge.

They're standing, elevated before his crew...staring unnervingly at the floor from the catwalk. Grimacing at the echos the walls threw in every direction, unaffected by the useless banter the men around him spewed. They were all scattered into the usual groups, a few showing the new kids the ropes and whispering the warnings into their adolescent, unprepared ears. The room housing them is old..._dusty_...and Tuesday wonders just how homely this place was to Two-Face's gang; whether they had somewhere else to go outside of this shit warehouse they've all called 'temporary' since the bleak beginnings of Dent's criminal career. If Duce, Miller or Jase, who've been in and out of jail for their boss countless times, actually had a family that set out a plate every night—plagued with the idea that their son or brother would eventually come home.

She's waiting patiently with a pot of coffee by the doorway. Her eyes, this unfocused brown, seem just as distant as Harvey's; they match the drink in her hands, sloshing against the glass and steaming from the rim. Tuesday doesn't really acknowledge the thirty men compared to her twelve cups of coffee...Even as more than half of them eyed it as she set it beside the disposable cups. Harvey wanted coffee...so she made coffee.

Two-Face hated coffee.

Similar to how Two-Face smokes.

Harvey thinks it's disgusting.

It was a complicated business...being a henchgirl. Particularly one of a split persona that was dependent on an inanimate object. Even as the manly banter continues on, topics varying from sex to their last home-cooked meal, she worries over that blank expression on both sides of his face. She ponders over what they're thinking about...what Harvey's said to beckon such a long, mature conversation between the both of them. Or what Two-Face has mocked to stir up an argument.

She waits another minute, watching as the stack of styrofoam cups on the table turns into a loan one beside an empty glass pot. Tuesday looks back to Two-Face, still standing without movement and now catching the attention of his more loyal members; the others were still talking, most exchanging prison tales.

"Hey Tues, can we get another pot of joe?" Duce raises his cup like a champion, grinning at her from the table with that welcoming smile one wouldn't expect a murderous criminal to have.

She nods gingerly before taking a final glance at her boss, grabbing the empty container with a quick grasp and turning towards the hall. She leaves the room to make more, brushing off the front of her dress for no particular reason. Still rather unsettled by Two-Face's silence, and uneasy at the lack of movement.

Walking into their makeshift kitchen, a rather dreary area, she sniffs the acrid smell of mold. Despite the gusty room's inconvenience it's grown on her, as most dreary things do. The sun burns through the cracking window, the tiny fridge in the corner humms comfortingly and Tuesday sets to work in producing another pot of _'joe'._ Taking the used grounds and tossing them in the usual can, pulling out a blue tub and refilling the machine with a filter and grounds.

Harvey likes it strong.

Two-Face hates coffee either way.

When she returns, one hand wrapped around the pot's handle while the other holds a standard mug by the rim, Two-Face is still silent. Fortunately they'd pressed their back against the wall and stuffed their hands into their pockets...indicating that they were at least _alive_. His crew hushed up after a while as well, all beginning to stare, just as unnerved. Paranoid.

And it begins to bother her more than anything had in a while. The feeling was similar to a moment of embarrassment, where it played in repetition like a record until your stomach clenched and your head throbbed. Where you held your breath and bit your lip, curling your toes as you wondered: _why?_

She felt the need to intervene, setting the pot back in its previous spot on the dingy table and approaching with their serving.

He's thinking too hard. Too much.

_Gilda._

He wanted his_ wife_.

But Gilda was always described as a meager distraction...she made him weak. Made him less of a man. She was the reason for his cowardice, the excuse made for his poor judgement. His face—visually ruined—had scared her away...his rage—endless—had numbed her tolerance. She'd mentioned divorce before Two-Face...a one-sided idea.

_'You can't love what doesn't love you back, Harvey.'_ Said with mocking and malice...forced into the back of his mind like a parasite. Two-Face didn't know what he was talking about.

'She still loves me.'

'_Let her go.' _Demanding.

'No.'

_'Flip on it.'_

Harvey sighs heavily under his breath, angered by their argument and even more so at the attention of frozen trepidation received by his boys...then embarrassed to know that Tuesday was also beginning to stare. His left hand fell to the pocket of their well-tailored jacket, and everyone tenses at the sight of the coin: as intimidating as a gun.

Even his henchgirl pauses mid-walk while eying the subject of decision pinned between his index and thumb. They're all aware he's thinking...and he hates the idea of them knowing. It was bad to show moments of quiet. They were mostly flaky scum, but they could read a face—or half of one—better than anything. And they knew the look of misconception, a reason he kept his moldered side towards the group as a sort of camouflage. A sort of defense.

But she can read them both like an _open novel_. And he hates the look he gets from Tuesday, and Two-Face despises the expression of concern set on her features. Wants to murder her for such unnecessary nosiness towards his business and his business alone. But he can't; even without Harvey he couldn't. He just didn't really want to. That's why she was with him in the first place, wasn't it?

Harvey almost laughs, suddenly bitter. Realizing that there was more than the appreciation of loyalty.

Hypocrite.

'You can't love what doesn't love you back, Two-Face.' Harvey retorts, solemnly...smug...aching. As though he were suddenly invincible.

_'Flip the fucking coin.' _It didn't matter; he'd rape her if he had to. He didn't _need_ consent.

They flip the coin, a heavy weight sullen on their shoulders as Harvey rethinks what was at stake. The sound it makes stills everyone in the room. A dramatic moment of suspicion, judgment, caution and fear all pointlessly plaguing the air with thick tension. It infected the warehouse with an energy more chilled than when Batman entered a room, fists ready.

It lands: tails up.

They all expect something to happen.

They shouldn't.

Harvey could feel their brow twitch in sync with the bridge of their nose. Feel the curl of his lip, as well as the pain of regret stab mercilessly at the low pits of their stomach. Anger, hate, relief and smugness tearing at their chest. Expressed only as rage, causing several of his experienced men to leave before the storm...throwing open the door and letting in white rays of sunlight.

It was still early.

He could use a cup of coffee.

He could use a smoke.

"Two-Face." He finally looks down, good eye wide and exposed following suit, an indication that Harvey was in control today. A very vague hint as to what kept him so tensely frozen.

Her lips part, chest thudding a bit too quickly and toes curling as response. She dares to utter the name...breathing it out hushed to avoid attention and hopefully a fist to the jaw. "Gilda?"

_Like a fucking book_. She says it like he'd told her, mumbling under her breath to keep his men at ease; keep his wife an untouched topic and keep her face intact.

He nods with a bitter look of angst, threatening and harsh. Daring her to say something despite knowing she won't. Tuesday knew where the line was drawn. Very rarely did she overstep her bounds.

"Coffee." She suggests softly, holding it forward, soothingly. Patiently...considerately.

"Yea." Harvey says it gruffly, broken, and looks to the rest of the room with an expression of impatience and mental fatigue. He turns away, annoyed. "Coffee."

"Early dismissal." She says it politely...and they're all hesitant to leave. Several walk out and more shift from one foot to the other as they stare at their employer's back, some tearing their empty cups into pieces as they awaited some uncanny announcement.

"Screw off!" He yells it over his shoulder, emptying the room within the minute. Like throwing a rock into a settled flock of pigeons. They scatter instinctively.

She notices the pot is empty again. The last cup is gone and a couple lay crushed on the floor. Two-Face made a disgusted noise as Harvey drank his coffee...and they watch peculiarly as Tuesday reaches under her dress, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket straps on her thighs.

They freely laugh this time, more as Two-Face than Harvey, solid and ironic. The scarred half takes the single cigarette presented like a pen, comparing it to the coffee before giving her a side-glance and grinning with burned lips.

"Fuck Gilda."

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**A plot is in the making. Next chapter opens a very distressing situation that Tuesday has to confront.**


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